


Sherlock and the Incident With the Cat

by 221B_Johnkhanlocked



Series: Life with Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221B_Johnkhanlocked/pseuds/221B_Johnkhanlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has had enough of Sherlock's arrogant, selfish, behavior. If he's going to act like a child, well, John can certainly find a way to treat him like one. </p><p>Look, Sherlock BEGGED John to get a cat so John caved of course. I don't own these characters but dang, if one wants a cat, you give him a bloody cat, right?</p><p>No cat was actually harmed for the writing of this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Incident With the Cat

Sherlock and The Incident with the CAT

The horrible, guttural cry from the kitchen made me drop my laptop to the floor as I rose hurriedly in concern. I turned to the kitchen half expecting Sherlock to be on fire or covered in some sort of nasty chemical eating at his skin. Instead I found him standing in the kitchen, back rigid, arm outstretched and with the look of profound disgust covering his face.

“My God, Sherlock? What have you got grasped in your hand? A scorpion or something?”

“Take it, take it, Watson,” he was commanding me, his eyes closed tightly and head turned away as he tossed what he had been holding towards me.

It hit the table just in front of me and as I had judged the object to be disgusting and/or dangerous, I recoiled from it protectively. I glanced down at the orange object lying in a blob of white goo. It was nothing more dangerous than a carrot covered in Ranch dressing; part of the tiny lunch---along with a quarter of my ham sandwich--- that I had fixed for him to nibble on.

I sighed, “Ranch dressing is NOT poison, Sherlock.”

“It’s touching the carrot.”

“You need help,” I grumbled. He looked at me hopefully and I added quickly. “No, not my help. You need a psychiatrist for this food issue of yours.”

“Many children do not like their food touching. It’s quite normal,” He said as he took apart the sandwich with a critical eye to remove anything unsavory and unwanted which turned out to be the ham itself.

“Normal for children, yes. My opinion is that at thirty-two…it’s mental instability. Stop tearing the sandwich apart…I made it EXACTLY to your liking.”

He set the plate containing five baby carrots dripped with dressing and his ripped open sandwich onto the table with a stubborn huff, “I’m not hungry.”

My temper was at a boiling point. He saw this and raised a hand to stop me. “I know your points well, Watson. You’ve repeated them to me on numerous occasions. Let’s just pretend you shouted it all at me again and avoid the usual row.”

I straitened my back and lowered my voice, “Considering that I chased after you all morning AND got nearly bitten by a dog AND was stabbed at, all because you WOULD NOT call the Police… I feel certain you OWE me this allowance. EAT the damn food, Sherlock! Now!”

He managed to look disgruntled, dismayed, stubborn, hurt and pouty all at the same time…drama queen. A frown was plastered to his face as he regarded the food on the plate. He whined, “I don’t want the Ranch dressing. I hate it.”

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Counting to twenty never works anymore so I counted all the way up to thirty before I looked at Sherlock again. “You eat it all the time on salad… yes, I KNOW that’s different… fine, I’ll wash off the carrots.”

He observed my every move as I corrected my grievous error. He handed me a napkin to dry each carrot off and somewhat reluctantly accepted the plate of ‘lunch’ in return.

“I have to eat the WHOLE thing…?” He asked as he took a seat at the table. He rearranged the carrots by size.

Sighing I rolled my eyes and just to be as cruel as I felt I said, “Yes, all of it and a box of raisins.”

He nearly gagged as I snatched a small red box of raisins from the counter and set that next to the plate. “Joooohhhhnnnn.” 

“That’s what happens when you argue, Sherlock. Now eat your lunch.” 

oooooOOoooooo

Six hours later and I was watching as a grown man pushed a pea around his dinner plate- back and forth with an annoying scraping sound. I grabbed Sherlock’s hand before he could wear a groove into the ceramic with his fork. “Stop rearranging the peas on your plate. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. You force fed me that HUGE meal at lunch, remember?”

My headache returned with a vengeance. I needed to lie down before I was compelled to choke the life out of the prat. “I’m going to take a paracetamol and go lie down. YOU eat everything on that plate! Don’t leave the table until it’s empty.”

“If I don’t?” he questioned, arching a dark brow at me.

I tilted my head and frowned, “I’ll keep serving it to you until you do… I don’t think you’ll like left over salmon and peas for breakfast…and since you WON’T make your own food, it will be waiting there for you to eat it.”

I left the kitchen, popped into the bathroom for a tablet and after taking it with a sip of water pulled myself to the room for a much deserved rest. Not bothering to take cloths off first, I dropped onto the duvet and my eyes had just fluttered closed in quiet bliss when there was a light rapping at the bedroom door. I growled,” What do you want?”

My door creaked open and blue eyes peered at me, “Finished and I washed my plate.”

“Call the press, a miracle has occurred,” I mumbled sleepily. “Great, good…now go play the violin or something, I’m sleeping.”  
The door closed quietly.

I managed to sleep an hour or so before I stretched and rose. If I napped too long I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night and besides the flat was too quiet for me to sleep soundly. A silent house meant Sherlock was either out getting into something dangerous, lounging on the couch and deeply imbedded in his Mind Palace or he was up to something in the flat itself. My nerves told me it was the latter. 

Instead of the couch, I found Sherlock resting on the floor of the sitting room, his long legs tucked under him as he petted his cat, Belle. She sat stiffly, staring at him accusingly with her radiant blue eyes and as soon as she saw me she ran over and purred madly.

“What’s wrong with the cat?” I asked him. “She seems angry with you.”

He shrugged and answered, “I was doing my experiment in the kitchen and when I heard her making a funny sound in here I came out to see what I could do. Maybe she’s sick.”

“Has she vomited?” I asked. He looked at me with sudden concern.

“You think she will? Shall I take her to the vet? That sound could have been choking or vomiting I guess…she’s breathing just fine…so perhaps vomiting then…I read about heartworms not long ago… oh Watson, is she dying from heart-worms?”

“God, stop, Sherlock…she seems fine now. Maybe she has a hairball again.”

He looked at me rather doubtfully, “I’m sure you are a decent enough PEOPLE doctor but you are NOT a vet. Perhaps I should take her in.”

“Thank you for the show of confidence in my abilities. Look, I’m sure she’s ok. I’ll give her some of that ointment the vet gave us the last time she had hairballs and we panicked. That was SOME EXPENSE we had for an afterhours visit just for some little thing like a hairball.” I picked up the regal, black cat and she snuggled in my arms, content. Sherlock rose and followed me as I took her into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer with the cat and my lover watching my every move with great interest.

I squeezed a small amount of the brown goo on my finger and Belle licked it off greedily. Once she was finished I set her on the floor where she stared up at me in protest. “There, that should do the trick. She’ll spit it up a little easier now.”

“It’s going to MAKE her vomit?” Sherlock gasped.

I laughed softly, “Maybe. Don’t worry. It makes it easier for her.”

“But I always end up stepping in it…” Sherlock grumbled with a wrinkled nose.

I chucked him on the shoulder, “Well, don’t walk around barefoot then.”

He mumbled under his breath and I followed him and the cat into the living room.

oooooOOooooo

We were watching television together…well I was watching and trying not to get angry with Sherlock for commenting snidely on the finer points of murder investigations during the new NCIS episode…when the cat started up with her wheezing cough. It made my skin crawl.

“Oh do go check on her, Sherlock. Make sure she’s not on that Persian rug.”

Sherlock shook his head resolutely, poking his long, graceful fingers in his ears, “I can’t. It makes me vomit too.”

I rose irritably, grumbling about her being HIS cat, NOT my job- how he had conveniently deleted all the begging he had worn me down with. I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and went in search of her. She was of course sitting in the middle of Mrs. Hudson’s favorite Persian Rug wearing a smug smile in front of her lovely mess.

“Thanks, Belle.” I told her. She meowed and walked off, tail high. I reached down to clean it up and discovered it wasn’t a hairball at all.

“Sherlock, why does the cat’s puke have Salmon and peas in it? Did you feed her YOUR dinner?”

There was silence save for a few gun shots on the television. 

“Sherlock? Look at me and answer, please.” I said sternly, letting my voice carry an edge of Captain Watson in it to let him know I was serious.

Sherlock turned his head slowly towards me, his eyes large and bright blue, “Um…well…she DID look hungry…and she only licked a BIT off the plate.”

I finished cleaning up after the cat. I shook my head at his ‘confession’. “It’s more than a bit. Looks like the exact same amount of food I put onto your plate for dinner.”

“I ate some of it…”

“I said to eat ALL of it, Sherlock, didn’t I?”

His head ducked down so I couldn’t see him any longer on the sofa. This childish reaction to being caught out made me almost laugh. “I know you are there, Sherlock… just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I’ll just forget this.”

“I did eat SOME…” His voice, muffled by his arm or the couch, came through a bit whiny. 

He sat up finally and glared at me as if he suddenly noticed me standing there, one hand on my hip. I saw the change in his eyes first. They flashed a flinty steel color and I recognized he was sliding mouth first into unrepressed anger. “I don’t know why you have this opinion I need to EAT so much. I did try. I just can’t. Besides I despise peas and Salmon. I’m NOT a child, Watson, I think I should decide what and how much to eat. I did manage fine without you.”

“Right, fine,” I said, in a foul mood. I stood, tossed the papers into the bathroom trash can and headed towards the stairs. 

“Watson, wait,” He called out. 

I ignored him and went into my old room-now used as my office and storage- and slammed the door angrily. I had to calm down. There are limits to what even I, a very patient man, can take. I was in ‘kill-mode’ and could really harm Sherlock- although frankly he deserved a damn good thrashing. 

There was a knock on my door. Yes, that was far better than the old behavior of just barging in unannounced but I called out irritably, “I’m not in the mood to deal with you, Sherlock. I’m quite angry and I wouldn’t push it if I were you. I really wouldn’t!”

Of course, the arrogant prat ignored my warning. He swung the door open and started in on me with his usual breathless tirade, “Just because you shop and cook, Watson, does not mean I have to eat everything you make for me. You’re being unreasonable and I think…”

I was boiling over, seeing red. “Right,” I uttered more to myself than to him. “I’ve had it. Something here needs changing.”

“Yes, that was my point entirely, Watson, something needs to be changed. I can’t be treated like a child.”

“If you didn’t act like a bloody child all the bloody damn time, it might help!” I shouted at him. I advanced upon him, my eyes filled with fury. This was the turning point, I felt it shift as surely as one might sense a tide turning. He would either accept this or we would be finished. Both of us being stubborn as mules, I wasn’t sure how he might react. Frankly I didn’t care, we needed this to happen. Our relationship was going to end badly if I didn’t put a stop to this annoying behavior. And an end to our relationship would mean an end to our friendship as well- I wasn’t bloody well going to let that happen! 

I grasped his purple shirt and pulled him towards me that final foot of space between us. In doing so suddenly, he lost his balance and fell forward towards me. He gasped and a snarling comment started to form on his face. “NO, Sherlock. You will remain silent! You will listen for once in your life. You are not a child, I know that. That is why we are going to discuss this… this rude, obnoxious behavior of yours. You do not wish to be treated like a child, well, I don’t wish to be treated like a servant of a badly spoiled brat! Until I see mature behavior I will treat you as you act.”

With that declaration- during which he seemed too stunned to say anything- I yanked him over to the edge of the bed, took a seat and guided him over my lap. Expecting an all-out struggle, I shifted my grip to the back of his shoulders and pressed him down. He’s tall and lanky and could certainly wiggle away from me but I was determined he wouldn’t get away from me. I was surprised when I managed to land several hard smacks to his ass without Sherlock moving or protesting. In fact he seemed resigned to the fact he was about to be thoroughly hided. Good, maybe this would be a successful endeavor after all.

I walloped him as hard as I could manage without hurting myself. Had I planned this out I would have turned him to face the other way so that I could strike him with my non-injured arm. Well, if there was a next time I would have to remember. He made no sound that I was effecting him at all- determined to change that- I told him, “I want to hear you, Sherlock. You are going to stay right there until I know I’ve reached you.”

After another half dozen swats I finally heard a faint gasp and he writhed under my hand. Still he made no effort to rise and simply took what I was giving him. I wasn’t sure this was a good sign or not. If he held true to form he was simply riding this out until he could escape me then he would blast me with his cold fusion anger. If however, I was connecting with him on some deeper, more profound level, one previously unattainable due to his stubbornness and arrogance, perhaps we would be closer than ever. I hoped it was the latter. It was up to him now.

My hand was hurting and taking a break I took the opportunity to lecture Sherlock. “You are correct, I do all the shopping and cooking. Therefor you will eat what I cook or fix something for yourself that is healthy.”

“Are you finished?” He grumbled.

Oh, Hell no.

Using his own favorite phrase, I told him, “Obviously not.” I grabbed his shirt collar and pulling him to his feet. His face was red and he refused to look at me. “Drop them.”

“Excuse me?” He asked, startled into looking at me with a touch of panic in his eyes.

“You heard me, Sherlock. Do it and get back over my lap. We’re not done here. Far from it by your current attitude.”

I braced to rise and give chase if he ran. Thankfully, he lowered his head and unbuttoned his fly. With shaking hands he pushed his trousers to his feet. He looked at me questioningly and I nodded confirmation that I wanted his pants down too. He heaved an unhappy sigh which nearly caved my resolve. He slid them down slowly and revealed himself to be hard and jutting upwards.

Internally I groaned. Crap, it was having the opposite effect on him. Of course it was. Nothing was ever easy with this man. Right then, it was just going to have to be a much harder hiding than I had originally planned. It was also going to take much more than my hand- which already felt swollen and sore. I stood, walked over to my dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out the paddle I had purchased as a ‘joke’ on a whim. Sherlock’s breath hitched when he saw me retrieving the paddle. Maybe we would get somewhere now.

I redirected him over my lap, remembering to change his direction. He glanced back at me as I spoke to him firmly. “Now, I know you push my buttons quite deliberately sometimes. I don’t know why. Perhaps its just that others let you get away with that behavior or don’t care to get closer and find out if your actually nice under that rough exterior. Well, I do care Sherlock. I do see the wonderful, sweet man you are when you let me. But you are quite abusive of my good nature. I don’t intend to take that from you any longer. I’m going to make sure you think twice before pushing me again.”

I commenced applying the paddle in short, sharp thwacks to his bare bottom. He tensed under my hand and hung his head. The only sound was the paddle smacking him over and over, his ass quickly turning fro the pink I had left it earlier to a dark red. He squirmed and gasped yet made no attempt to beg or thrash about on my lap. My only experience with spanking was as a recipient over my father’s lap when I had disobeyed him as a young teenager. I remember distinctly how much it had hurt, how sad I felt at disappointing him and how much I had yelped and cried. This silence was unnerving but determined to see it through; I continued to drop the paddle across the darkening globes- sending ripples through the bouncing flesh.

I stopped finally to inspect my work. He was fiery red from the fleshiest part of his ass to the area mid-thigh. I rubbed my hand gently across it. The heat was intense and he HAD to be feeling it by now. “Just one more round now, I think, then we’ll be done.”

I put my best into it, hoping he would feel my disappointment in every swat. He pushed against my leg and tried avoiding the blows. I was relentless and continued. I was lost in the rhythm and nearly didn’t catch the soft choked sob he gave suddenly. I had finally reached him. I swatted his sit spots again then laid the paddle on the bed beside me. He was sniffling and trying to catch his breath for several long minutes as I rubbed his back.

“Sit on my lap now, love. Let me hold you.”

Sherlock rose slowly and when he faced me I was stunned to see tears streaking down his face. How long had he suffered beyond what he could normally take? I cursed myself. Of course, he was stubborn and wouldn’t beg or cry out. He had actually fought and overrode what his body would normally express during pain. I’d have to be more careful next time in judging his reactions to my administrations- if there was going to be a next time. I wanted immediate reassurances that our relationship had survived fully intact.

“Sherlock?” I asked as he arranged his long legs over my lap. He whimpered quietly as his sore ass hit my jeans but he soon settled.

“Mmm?” He murmured, his head tucked under my chin.

“Are WE ok? I mean I know we’ve never discussed this as part of our relationship? Are you ok or are you angry?”

He played with a button on my shirt.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m thinking, John.”

First name. Ah that felt like a victory of sorts. “You sound ok.”

He nodded, “Not mad. Didn’t like it though.”

I smirked, patting his bare thigh, “Well, silly boy, that WAS the point.”

“I know. I’m ok, John.”

“We’ve been lovers now nearly three months and you still call me Watson most times, even in bed. Did you even notice that, Sherlock?”

He frowned at me, “It’s your name.”

I sighed, “Sherlock, it makes me feel like… well, like you are keeping me at a distance, like you’ve drawn a line somewhere in your mind and saying this far and no further. I want, no, I need to feel close. I want to matter to you.”

A deep frown formed on his face; eyes shining with emotion I’d rarely witnessed from him. “You matter, John. The only one who does matter.”

“Then you’ll let me in?” I asked, lifting his chin to make eye contact. I thumped him gently on the forehead and he blinked in surprise, “There’s a spot in there for me? For JOHN?”

Sherlock barked a sharp laugh; saying, “There’s a whole floor dedicated to you, John.”

I smirked softly at this declaration, “Oh is there, really? A whole floor of your Mind Palace is mine? What’s in it? Just curious.”

He answered seriously, “You want the whole inventory? That will take a significant period of time.”

I shook my head and shifted him off my aching leg, “No, Love, a synopsis will do. Give me five examples of what is in that amazing mind of yours.”

“Only five?” His face scrunched as he puzzled out what he wanted to tell me. Finally he said, eyes glazing in thought as he traveled the halls of his mind palace, “I remember the look of astounded wonder you gave me right after Angelo returned your cane our first night running down criminals together. I know precisely how you smell of toothpaste and fresh laundry every Saturday morning when we cuddle on the couch. I know if you’ve had a bad day at the clinic or not just by the sound of your footsteps on the stairs and I know by that sound if you will put milk in your tea or opt for coffee. I remember the way it feels when your hand brushes through my hair when you are saying goodnight- I feel it even when you are far away from home at a conference and simply tell me good night over the phone. But the most important memory to me, the one I guard most closely, would be the exact moment I felt you penetrating my body for the first time; my fear vanished and I felt I belonged to you.”

My mouth was open. I snapped it shut and kissed him hard on the lips. At first he was stiff, uncertain, but finally I felt the surrender. I pushed my tongue between his gently parted lips. He tasted of chocolate biscuits and tea. I nearly laughed at that, of course my brat had eaten biscuits instead of a proper supper. Pulling away momentarily, eliciting a moan of admonishment from Sherlock, I hugged him tightly to my chest, “You are a beautiful, amazing man, you know that, Love? Would you like to add a memory of being fucked senseless into the mattress and being made to cum while screaming my FIRST name?”

A dry chuckle, “Yes, John, I would.”

I snorted, kissing him lightly on the jaw, “Great, go feed the cat, Sherlock, she deserves tuna tonight, I think and then we can get working on that memory straight away. Meet me in our bedroom in five minutes.”

I’ve never seen him move so quickly.


	2. Sherlock Responds to John's Incident with the Cat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't the title a sort of summary of the written piece? I'm certain it is a summary. Are the readers not intelligent enough to deduce a summation from such a simplistic clue? Or do they, like Scottland Yard, require my assistance?
> 
> If complete idiots are reading this, it is my version- the truthful version- of what happened when the cat vomitted.
> 
> Read John's fictional piece first then my own. You decide who you feel is giving you a straight, unbiased report of facts. 
> 
> SW (H if you want to be all wigged out over the fact I took Watson as my last name.)
> 
> * John just reminded me-AGAIN-to tell you I've recently been signing S W (for Watson), my new married name. I reminded him it wasn't your business.
> 
> John shouted and carried on about your loyalty to his blog. Hope you are happy. If not, stick to his blog then.

Recently it has come to my attention that one, John Hamish Watson, my personal blogger, has decided for some strange, unholy reason to tell about the single most embarrassing situation in my life. When he discovers-if he is observant enough to notice-that I have responded to his blog I beg of the police to take my death seriously and to investigate John for murder.

I will start with the facts. John states that at the start of this that I cried out to him in some inhuman form. I did no such thing. I calmly and politely called him to the kitchen to address the ‘carrot’ issue. He had ruined perfectly decent vegetables by drenching them completely in disgusting ranch dressing. Obviously he knows I cannot stand this condiment as I have told him thus on many occasions. I completely deny that I destroyed the carrots and sandwich. John makes things up as you likely know from reading his insipient blog. Or perhaps you don’t know – if like most ‘average’ minded readers you are an idiot.

His viewpoint that ranch dressing is not a poison is erroneous. Anything at all could be easily turned into a poison simply by the application of rat poison. I wasn’t going to take any unnecessary risks with it or the ham, which in my heightened state of observance, tasted off.

John offered help but suggested that I receive this support from a doctor. He said I have food issues. As he has annoyingly mentioned this to me and to you, the readers of his blog, I wanted to clear this matter for the record. I do not have issues with food. I simply do not need to eat. My body is transport for my mind. I do in fact eat just enough to keep the transport moving. Eating takes time, wastes energy I could use thinking and is in fact, BORING. No, food should not touch on a plate. Yes, I arrange things by size. I have always done this practice. The first ensures that flavors are not cross contaminated for my sensitized palate and the second practice speeds up the process of consumption. I have experimented numerous times –to John’s annoyance- with both arranging and leaving food to lay chaotically on my plate and I assure you arranging the food by size and texture speeds up my eating time considerably. I do not need a doctor’s opinion. 

I do not comprehend why John gets so upset by little things like this. I saw he was about to blow his gasket yet again and raised a hand to stop him. “I know your points well, Watson. You’ve repeated them to me on numerous occasions. Let’s just pretend you shouted it all at me again and avoid the usual row.”

He then proceeded to tell me how I inconvenienced him that morning. The whole thing was entirely his fault. By eating so much he is gaining weight- at least a half a stone- and he isn’t nearly as agile or fast as I. He opened the garden gate when I clamored upon the top of the shed instead of going through the garden and the dog was quite small that ‘attacked’ him. I did ask why he hadn’t gone onto the fence and shed as I had done and he just looked at me as if I were the stupidest being on Earth. The criminal did stab at him I must admit. John managed though to knock the knife away so I don’t perceive why he would be upset by that insignificant event. After we apprehended the criminal we did call the police. No harm to blogger, I saved the day once again for Gavin and Scotland Yard. He felt like all this entitled him to control what I ate.

John shouted at me to, “EAT the damn food, Sherlock! Now!”

I reminded him, “I don’t want the Ranch dressing. I hate it.” He says I was being a drama queen. That is simply not true. John needs to stick to the facts. He would make a lousy police officer with all the flights of fancy he takes.

He washed off the offending condiment and told me I had to eat everything on the plate with an addition to a box of raisins. This was cruelty on his part. He only buys them because he states they are a healthy, convenient snack for people ‘on the go’. I usually remind him that they are shriveled up grapes lacking hydration and cannot fathom how wrinkled up grape skins could be healthy. The look he gave me though was dark and angry. I told him politely that I didn’t want the shriveled up, disgusting snack and he wasn’t sympathetic.

“That’s what happens when you argue, Sherlock. Now eat your lunch.” 

I ate it as best I could. The moment he left the kitchen I hid the food in a paper napkin and placed it carefully under all the trash. Later I observed him poking under the top layer and knew I was safe from discovery as he wouldn’t look much deeper. I don’t understand why I always get a bit nervous when John becomes upset with me but as he searched the trash, my heart was pounding and it took all my focus not to give myself away.

ooOOoo

Six hours later and I was sitting at the table, eating as best I could the enormous supper he had cooked. He grabbed my hand for some mysterious reason and demanded, “Stop rearranging the peas on your plate. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. You force fed me that HUGE meal at lunch, remember?”

I could see he was getting one of his characteristic headaches and before I could mention he really needs to see a doctor about possible brain tumors he rose from the table and said, “I’m going to take a paracetamol and go lie down. YOU eat everything on that plate! Don’t leave the table until it’s empty.”

“If I don’t?” I asked him. Reader, you may wonder why I asked this particular question. The answer simply was that I was worried he might have an aneurysm from the stress my not eating might give him. Later, AFTER the embarrassing event, he told me he thought I had been pushing to get a reaction by asking that leading question. I told him not to be ridiculous. I only asked him in reference to my concern for his mental and physical health.

John said, “I’ll keep serving it to you until you do… I don’t think you’ll like left over salmon and peas for breakfast…and since you WON’T make your own food, it will be waiting there for you to eat it.”

He turned and left me alone at the table. Not wanting to upset John further-in light of the fact these headaches he gets could be a tumor- I decided that his cat Belle looked hungry. I scooped the fancy meal into her bowl, Salmon and peas together in a heap. Seeing it all touching made me feel ill and I could barely stand watching her as she consumed it quickly. I washed my plate and put it away. That should keep John from having a nuclear melt-down later. I knew he would want to thank me for being so thoughtful and neat so I went to the bedroom to tell him.

I knocked on the door and he growled,” What do you want?” Irritability is a yet another sign of brain tumor!

I opened the door and peered in at John, “Finished and I washed my plate.”

“Call the press, a miracle has occurred,” He mumbled sleepily. “Great, good…now go play the violin or something, I’m sleeping.”

I closed the door quietly.

As he napped I managed to work silently at my experiments. I noticed in his version of the story that he didn’t even mention my current research. I suppose it was because he was for some unknown reason rather distraught over the fact I had ripped up a God awful green jumper to use the wool fibers for my experiment. It was proving to be very useful to me to test various acids on the strands. I had worked for less than an hour when I heard a strange coughing noise from the sitting room. I went to investigate. It turned out to be Belle sitting near the window trying to vomit. I immediately sat next to her trying to calm her. If she threw up what I had fed her I knew John would descend upon me like a hammer upon steel. I am not being dramatic. If you personally have not faced a very angry John Hamish Watson consider yourself lucky. Actually, I had a question for his blog readers. Most of you do not know him personally so why do you read his blog? As I stated earlier he ‘dresses’ up the stories to sound like grand adventures and he rarely tells how I solved the issues that confounded the police. I personally find his blog dull.

As if he has a sixth sense for times I’d prefer he not be there, he entered the sitting room with a look of skepticism, “What’s wrong with the cat?” He asked me. “She seems angry with you.”

I truthfully answered, “I was doing my experiment in the kitchen and when I heard her making a funny sound in here I came out to see what I could do. Maybe she’s sick.”

“Has she vomited?” He asked. 

“You think she will? Shall I take her to the vet? That sound could have been choking or vomiting I guess…she’s breathing just fine…so perhaps vomiting then…I read about heartworms not long ago… oh John is she dying from heartworms?” I inquired hoping he would allow me to box the cat and trundle her out of the flat before she vomited in front of him.

“God, stop, Sherlock…she seems fine now. Maybe she has a hairball again.”

He decided she didn’t need the vet and I rose and followed him as he took Belle into the kitchen. He gave her a small amount of the brown goo on his finger and Belle licked it off greedily. I knew why she liked it, it tasted a lot like Vegemite to me when I had tasted it.

He set her down and told me, “There,that should do the trick. She’ll spit it up a little easier now.”

“It’s going to MAKE her vomit?” I asked, very worried now.

“Maybe. Don’t worry. It makes it easier for her.”

Great. Just great. I followed him and the cat into the living room.

ooooOOoooo

We were watching television together…well I was watching and trying not to get angry with John for not conceding to my lecture on the finer points of murder investigations during the new NCIS episode…when the cat started up with her wheezing cough. It made my skin crawl.

“Oh do go check on her, Sherlock. Make sure she’s not on that Persian rug.”

I shook my head resolutely, poking my fingers in my ears, “I can’t. It makes me vomit too.”

He rose irritably, grumbling about her being MY cat, NOT his job- how he thinks I had deleted all the begging I had worn him down with to acquire her. I hadn’t deleted any of it. It was amusing. My little experiment on whether or not I could get John to agree on a point he was resolute on NOT agreeing upon had gone very well. Two days of wheedling, two more of cold shoulder and then only one temper tantrum later he drug me down to the local shelter to locate a suitable animal companion. He had chosen Belle due to her lovely eyes that reminded him apparently of someone else with similar eyes. I don’t know who he talking about. My eyes are a plain blue/grey with gold/green flecks. He says they are unique because they seem to shift color. I’ve never seen them do this obviously so I think he has gone a bit daft in his old age.

He grabbed a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and went in search of her. 

“Thanks, Belle.” He told her so assumed she had finally vomited. I’m glad he had found it instead of me with my bare feet.

“Sherlock, why does the cat’s puke have Salmon and peas in it? Did you feed her YOUR dinner?”

There were a few gun shots on the television. I didn’t move.

“Sherlock? Look at me and answer, please.” He said sternly, Captain Watson leaking into his voice.

I looked at him and shrugged. “Um…well…she DID look hungry…and she only licked a BIT off the plate.”

“It’s more than a bit. Looks like the exact same amount of food I put onto your plate for dinner.”

“I ate some of it…”

“I said to eat ALL of it, Sherlock, didn’t I?”

I ducked down so I couldn’t see him any longer. Maybe he would go away.

“I know you are there, Sherlock… just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I’ll just forget this.”

“I did eat SOME…” I said as I sat up finally and saw him standing there, one hand on his hip. He looked at me like Mycroft used to when he said I had been a naughty little boy. It angered me to see him think he needed to take on this role as my caregiver. I wasn’t a child. I wasn’t naughty. I told him so, “I don’t know why you have this opinion I need to EAT so much. I did try. I just can’t. Besides I despise peas and Salmon. I’m NOT a child, Watson, I think I should decide what and how much to eat. I did manage fine without you.”

“Right, fine,” He said, in a foul mood as he headed towards the stairs. 

“Watson, wait,” I called out. I wasn’t finished giving him my piece of mind.

I followed right behind him and knocked on his door. He called out irritably, “I’m not in the mood to deal with you, Sherlock. I’m quite angry and I wouldn’t push it if I were you. I really wouldn’t!”

I ignored him, swung the door open and stated, “Just because you shop and cook, Watson, does not mean I have to eat everything you make for me. You’re being unreasonable and I think…”

“Right,” He said quietly. “I’ve had it. Something here needs changing.”

“Yes, that was my point entirely, Watson, something needs to be changed. I can’t be treated like a child.”

He advanced upon me like a mad man and grasped his purple shirt. He pulled me towards him and in doing so suddenly, I lost his balance and fell forward towards him. I was going to simply tell him to be more careful with my expensive shirt but he snarled, “NO, Sherlock. You will remain silent! You will listen for once in your life. You are not a child, I know that. That is why we are going to discuss this… this rude, obnoxious behavior of yours. You do not wish to be treated like a child, well, I don’t wish to be treated like a servant of a badly spoiled brat! Until I see mature behavior I will treat you as you act.”

I was too stunned to say anything- he took full advantage and yanked me over to the edge of the bed, took a seat and guided me over his lap. I didn’t struggle. I knew in his anger he would hurt himself trying to keep me in place. So instead I could wait him out, take this and be done with it. When the first two swats rained down on me I was shocked at how strong the little man really was. He seemed pleased that I was not struggling so maybe there would be a positive outcome from his releasing his penned up anger. We needed this; for him to let it out and then we could deal with each other more calmly.  
He told me, “I want to hear you, Sherlock. You are going to stay right there until I know I’ve reached you.”

I knew he meant it. I just couldn’t comply. I am too stubborn and stoic. I can suffer through nearly everything in silence. I gritted my teeth through twenty inferno producing smacks to my ass. I could tell he was hurting his arm and hand. He was resolutely applying his hand and I knew from his soft grunts that this was hurting him more than it was hurting me. I didn’t want him to injure himself on my account. If he did he’d play a martyr for the next six months. I faked a whimper. It was up to him now.

He decided I needed a break and he took the opportunity to lecture me. “You are correct, I do all the shopping and cooking. Therefor you will eat what I cook or fix something for yourself that is healthy.”

As he does LOVE to lecture me, I rolled my eyes in boredom and asked INNOCENTLY, “Are you finished?” 

Oh, Hell no, I heard him think. I don’t actually read his mind- but I felt his back stiffen in anger and that is what I deduce he is thinking when he gets that way. 

“Obviously not,” He told me angrily, grabbing my shirt collar and pulling me to my feet. “Drop them.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. I was surprised he wanted to continue, it wasn’t going to affect me. I felt he should just give up. Let me have my way as he had always done before. Why was he being so obtuse and stubborn?

“You heard me, Sherlock. Do it and get back over my lap. We’re not done here. Far from it by your current attitude.”

I briefly considered simply bolting for the door. This had gone on long enough. I looked at him. He was ready to wrestle me back in position. I’m faster but he’s stronger and woefully hard headed. He’d chase me down and tackle me. The purple shirt had already taken abuse. I decided to comply to save me from having to buy a new shirt; I unbuttoned my fly and lowered my trousers to my feet. I glanced at John questioningly and he nodded confirmation that he wanted my underpants down too. I was reluctant to reveal I was quite hard and needing release. He groaned in understanding when he saw my cock was fully engorged. I observed as his new found determination entered his body first through the straitening of his back, then watched it move into a head tilt and grim frown. I saw too the exact moment that he decided to use the paddle he had purchased. I must admit my heart stopped a moment. He was going to hide me until I was crying. No one had ever succeeded before. I knew John could be the one to be able to take me that far. Is it wrong that I secretly hoped he could? Internally I groaned. Crap, this was going to hurt. 

John stood, walked over to his dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out the paddle. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

He redirected me over his lap, remembering to change my direction. He said firmly. “Now, I know you push my buttons quite deliberately sometimes. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s just that others let you get away with that behavior or don’t care to get closer and find out if your actually nice under that rough exterior. Well, I do care Sherlock. I do see the wonderful, sweet man you are when you let me. But you are quite abusive of my good nature. I don’t intend to take that from you any longer. I’m going to make sure you think twice before pushing me again.”

I wish he’d given me some time to think about what he had said. Seems to me he is constantly rushing me to think about important points of debate. He stated he thinks I am wonderful and sweet. He thinks I’m pushing buttons deliberately. I never expected to find someone that would look beneath the bonnet as it were. Was I trying to prove to him that I am not lovable? That I’m an outsider observing this strange world of friends and relationships? Push him away before he found out the truth and left me?

He commenced applying the paddle in short, sharp thwacks to my bare bottom. I could not believe the intensity of the sting. He gave no quarter. I started to squirm away from the paddle as it applied layer upon layer of fire from my hips to the backs of my thighs. I’d never been spanked this long or this hard. Certainly Mycroft had managed a few times to wrestle me into a position across his knees but even he did not have the constitution nor patience to pursue it to the very end. Perhaps I am addicted to pain just a little too much. Perhaps I push my body beyond the average person and it simply takes more to be ENOUGH. John had reached that point. I was crying and he continued to bring the paddle down despite my surrender. 

He stopped finally to inspect his work. The heat was intense and I felt thoroughly exhausted. I was glad it was over.

“Just one more round now, I think, then we’ll be done.”

My heart stopped. He couldn’t be serious.

He put his best into it and I felt his disappointment in me in every swat. I pushed against his leg and tried avoiding the blows but he was relentless and continued. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I started to cry in earnest. He swatted my sit spots again then laid the paddle on the bed. He rubbed my back.

“Sit on my lap now, love. Let me hold you.”

I rose slowly and when I faced him he seemed surprised to see my tears. I could see he was upset with himself for some reason. I wanted to tell him I was fine. I couldn’t seem to put together a thought. I simply sat on his lap and tucked my head under his chin. My ass was throbbing but the silence in my brain was bliss.

“Sherlock?” 

“Mmm?” 

“Are WE ok? I mean I know we’ve never discussed this as part of our relationship? Are you ok or are you angry?”

OH GOD he wants to talk NOW? I played with a button on his shirt.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m thinking, John.”

“You sound ok.”

Put words together. “Not mad. Didn’t like it though.”

“Well, silly boy, that WAS the point.”

“I know. I’m ok, John.”

“We’ve been lovers now nearly three months and you still call me Watson. Did you even notice that, Sherlock?”

“It’s your name.” It was truth. I simply found it convenient. I called him Watson at a crime scene and he called me Holmes. Did it matter it was easier just to use the one name both at work and at home?

I was about to ask him this when he said, “Sherlock, it makes me feel like… well, like you are keeping me at a distance, like you’ve drawn a line somewhere in your mind and saying this far and no further. I want, no, I need to feel close. I want to matter to you.”

His answer hurt for some reason. I hurriedly answered, “You matter, John. The only one who does matter.”

“Then you’ll let me in,” He asked, lifting my chin to make eye contact. He thumped him gently on the forehead and I blinked at him in surprise, “There’s a spot in there for me? For JOHN?”

I laughed, “There’s a whole floor dedicated you, John.” How could he not know that? In fact there was now a floor, an extension and a stairwell all because of John- filled with things I NEVER wanted to let go of.

He frowned in disbelief, “Oh is there, really? A whole floor of your Mind palace is mine. What’s in it? Just curious.”

“You want the whole inventory? That will take time.” A few years maybe of time.

“No, Love, a synopsis will do. Give me five examples of what is in that amazing mind of yours”

“Only five?” 

He nodded. Ok, let’s see—the most treasured five are in the main room on the mantle. I saw the objects lying there and described the memories they triggered, “I remember the look of wonder you gave me right after Angelo returned your cane our first night running down criminals together. I know how you smell of toothpaste and laundry every Saturday morning when we cuddle on the couch. I know if you’ve had a bad day at the clinic or not by the very sound of your footsteps on the stairs and I know by that sound if you will put milk in your tea or opt for coffee. I remember the way it feels when your hand brushes through my hair when you are saying goodnight- I feel it even when you are far away from home at a conference and simply tell me good night. But the most important memory to me, the one I guard most closely, would be the exact moment I felt you penetrating my body for the first time; my fear vanished and I felt I belonged to you.”

He kissed me hard on the lips. At first I was still in my head but as I swam upwards back into my current situation I surrendered to him. He pushed his tongue between my gently parted lips. He tasted of Salmon and peas. I nearly laughed at that, of course my lover would taste like the food item that had gotten me into this predicament in the first place. He pulled away from the kiss and hugged me tightly to my chest, “You are a beautiful, amazing man, you know that, Love? Would you like to add a memory of being fucked senseless into the mattress and being made to cum while screaming my FIRST name?”

Are you kidding, would I? “Yes, John, I would.”

He told me to go feed the bloody damn cat and I think I did so at warp speed.

 

* There, dear reader, you have my side of this tale. My opinion is that John lost his temper unjustly at the cat having digestive issues. I researched online and cats DO in fact eat salmon and many cat food brands include pieces of vegetables. I didn’t harm HIS cat and I still don’t need the amounts of food he claims I do. Should he decide it to be justified I’m sure he’s thinking he can once again dole out a hiding. He’ll be in for a surprise though. I hid the paddle where he won’t be able to find it. Problem solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are you supposed to write here? SW (or H)
> 
> * Ok, John said I'm supposed to tell you I'm a fictional character. Really? I have to tell you that then there is something not right about you. Maybe like John you have a brain tumor. I know I decent oncologist I could reco

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read my stories.
> 
> As this was by far the easiest one for me to write thus far, I love how it turned out. I hope you liked it.


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